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The Gods’ tears fell in streams, bouncing of the street and soaking my boots. Even the short distance from the taxi to the front door of the large Georgian house left their leather dull and wet. I was glad I’d worn them and had my court shoes in my bag. The door was answered almost as I banged the huge brass knocker shaped like a ship’s anchor. Gina opened it.

‘My God, Emma, what a night. Come on in before you drown.’

I was late, as always. Gina was celebrating her fortieth birthday with a large group of friends, workmates, members of her amateur players group for whom I occasionally wrote pieces and others. The invitation had read “posh frocks and dinner jackets – let’s sparkle!” I wore a long, gunmetal grey dress with a tight waist and tiny straps. It was, of course, silk and lined with more. My chestnut hair was loose under the hood of my long waterproof which I shed and Gina hung for me.

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